A Broken Dog
by Mr.AppleWood
Summary: This story takes place during the first 15 years of Gob's enslavement to Moriarty. He's abused and manipulated and meets many people, both benign and malicious.


** Author's note: So I realized I made a huge continuity error with Nova's age in the first post(She'd be 10 at this point and I am not going to write about a 10 year old prostitute) and I have decided to replace her with an OC. Only a few details have been changed in this chapter. I'm hoping I can keep this fic up to cover the 15 years Gob is at Moriarty's and will hopefully be able to bring Nova back in. Sorry for the confusion.

Moriarty was evil.

Gob hadn't been out in the wastes for long, and his experiences were mainly from Underworld or repressed under more layers than what had peeled off his flesh, but Gob without a doubt could say Moriarty was one of the foulest men he'd ever met. Unfortunately, he now was his slave, however loose Moriarty made the term seem.

"Did you buy me just to beat me?" Gob spat through a bloody mouth, leaning against his bed frame.

"Ever trained a dog, zombie?" The Irish accent came with foul breath. "You have to break them before they listen."

"I'm not a dog."

Moriarty grabbed him roughly by the jaw. "Aye, but you'll be beggin like one."

Gob's hands were cuffed behind his back. The rough metals cut through his the peeling flesh on his wrists. His right eye was swollen shut, his mouth dripped blood from cut lips and cheeks, and every breath hurt.

Moriarty raised his fist and swiftly slammed it into Gob's skull, nearly knocking him to his side.

"Tell me, boy, what made you leave that sewer pit of a city? Got tired of being around your own kind?"

"Fuck you."

Another punch. The room spun and Gob's brain felt like it had smacked around the walls of his head. As he sat up, Moriarty's fist rocketed into his solar plexus, blasting the wind out of his lungs. Before he could even gasp, Moriarty squeezed his dirty hands around Gob's throat. Gob flailed, kicking and twitching and spasming, trying to get any air, any leverage. Spots formed in his eyes. Moriarty's bastard face was the last thing he saw as the world went black.

Air pushed it's way back into Gob's lungs, flavored like cigarettes and whiskey. Someone's mouth was one his, warm and soft. His lungs greedily pulled in all the air they could swell themselves to take. Coughing and gasping, oxygen returned to him.

The first person he saw was Trish, the saloon's current working girl. She was kneeling over him, careful not to touch him. Her long brown hair framed her tanned face. Oxygen depravity made a halo of light surround her in Gob's eyes. He thought she looked like the most beautiful woman in the world.

Gob stared at her for a few seconds, or minutes, or however long he was there, before he noticed that she looked scared. Tears streamed down her face and she wasn't looking at him.

"Ah, finally, he's awake." Gob's stomach knotted when he heard the bastard's voice.

Gob leaned his head down toward his feet and saw Moriarty standing by the entrance to Gob's bedroom. Moriarty held a gun lazily in his hand, pointing it at Trish.

"I just had our favorite lass here bring you back to life. Had to do it at gun point, I might add."

Gob put his head back at a more relaxed level, turning his head back to Trish. She kept her brown eyes on the gun. He focused on getting as much air back as possible. Gob could hear each pump of blood rush through his brain. His heart was pounding. The sensations running through his body were paralyzing. Gob steadily gazed at Trish, focused on the rise and fall of her chest, trying to sync his own breathing with hers. She breathed heavily, each inhale laced with fear and anger. It was a steady breathing, something easy to fall in line with.

A wicked grin crept through Moriarty's lips. "Hit him."

Trish glared back. Moriarty raised his gun. "Hit him."

Trish raised her hand, hesitated for a mere second, and then slapped Gob across his left cheek. A loud ringing sung through his ears.

"Harder."

With no hesitation, Trish struck open handed again.

"Harder."

Trish's fist plowed into his bruised face. Moriarty commanded for more and Trish delivered. Each strike struck true and each blast knocked him further from reality. Soon the hits just turned into a blur, a numb storm of fury. Soon Moriarty's voice was lost and all Gob knew was Trish's rage. Her fists kept coming and coming and Gob was pretty sure Moriarty had stopped commanding her to do anything.

Then it stopped. Gob slowly rolled his head to look up at his assailant. Trish panted heavily, her eyes wide, mixed between horror and something much more primal. Moriarty had rested a hand on her shoulder, as if saying "That's enough."

She raised her shaking hands to her view and saw them bloodied. Trish's knuckles were cracked and blood from both her and Gob stained her skin.

"You can go." Moriarty's voice came out in a cool rumble.

Trish stood, one foot at a time, her hands still suspended before her. She backed up, stumbling into the wall behind her. Trish stared down at Gob for one last moment, and with a shake of her head, left.

Moriarty stood in front of Gob. Gob looked up at him, waiting. Moriarty cocked his head to the side, analyzing his captive.

"She seemed to enjoy that," he murmured. "She seemed to hate enjoying it."

Gob's head pounded. He wanted to go to sleep, or die, or just be anything other than awake.

"Please…" Gob croaked out.

"Hmm?" Moriarty raised his eyebrows.

"Please..."

"Begging already?" Moriarty smirked. "But training's just begun. This is just day one, lad."

A sob escaped Gob's chest. More urgently he whispered, "Please…"

Moriarty's face contorted in rage and he kicked straight between Gob's legs, striking his groin. Gob's mouth opened in a silent "O", shocked by the pain of the unexpected kick, and he tried to roll over, his arms still bound behind his back. Another kick struck his body and another, each hit lifting him off the ground some. Gob felt ribs crack, his fingers break, and bruises thicken with the additional battalion of beatings. His stomach knotted tightly, muscles twisting into stone, tightening with every additional dose of pain.

When the kicks stop, Gob was frozen with pain.

"You're not a man," said Moriarty, "and now, you're not even a monster. You're just a dog."

Gob tensed, expecting another kick. The moments between seconds seemed to stretch for centuries. Then Moriarty's footsteps sounded through the doorway and faded down the hall.

Gob let out a shaking breath, curling his knees into his chest. His entire body was shaking. Short broken sobs and whimpers shook out of his mouth. His ribs were broken and his face was more swollen, bruised, and mangled than before. His stomach was tight with a nauseating train track of pain, and his head continued to pound. He lay there, next to his bed on the dirty ground, slowly fading into a halfway point of asleep and awake. His moments of peace were broken by sharp stabs of pain.


End file.
